Date: Mon, 11 May 2015 20:57:27 -0400 From: Phillippe La Mer Subject: "The Rock" Hello Nifty boys and girls! My name is Phillippe, and I'm a new Nifty author. This is what I hope will be the start of a long series based around my experiences with naturism, freikörperkultur, nudism, whatever you call it. While real experiences underlie my writing, none of the sex in this story is real, it's all just a dream of a more perfect union that may some day, the gods willing, come to pass. Please do not try this at home! This story will include sexual situations between older and younger people of both genders. It will also include public nudity, good food, loud music, adult beverages and possibly some witty banter. If these things not allowed where you are, please head for the exit. Like most authors, I crave recognition. In our little online world, that means I crave email! Please send me your feedback, random thoughts, heartfelt pleas and other data to my inbox at: naturiste@safe-mail.net I would especially love to hear from folks who practice naturism. Cheers, Phillippe THE ROCK PRELUDE 1962 LANGUEDOC THE SURVIVORS STOOD on the dome of the rock looking out to the sea, the water shiny and flat upon the waveless coast. To the left hand and the right stretched the long sandy sweep of the Gulf of Lions. The beach, backed by a line of dunes, was backed by the glint of long salt ponds, and then the land rising towards the dry vine-furrowed brown hills in the distance. The young man pointed down to the seaside hollow of the rock, where a patch of parasol pines grew, protected from the force of the winter tramontane by the lee of sandstone. The young man was shirtless, in worn khaki shorts and copper in the summer sun, and the young woman was wearing a slip of a pale blue cotton dress with narrow straps across her sunburnt shoulders, her long brown hair whipping in the wind. "You don't remember? We came in the Packard after visiting grandfather from Paris. Our tent was there. We stayed for weeks and swam and walked the beach and climbed the rock. Papa cooked on a fire. There were no servants. It was just us." "Maybe I remember. Flashes. How old was I?" "I was six, so you were three. It was the last summer with mama and papa when things were still good, before the strain and fighting started. Blum had been elected at the beginning of the summer and they were so excited. They thought it meant things had changed, maybe that his power could protect them, even save them. They wanted to forget that Blum had been beaten almost to death in the streets a few months before. They were such happy fools." "Don't be angry. They couldn't imagine... So they were happy? I remember them laughing but I don't remember them really happy." The young man looked out for a long moment and listened to the cicadas chirping in the sea grass. "They were happy. When we got back to Paris the guerra had started and papa headed off to Barcelona. When he came back in winter things were never quite the same, but that summer before, they were happy. They talked about the glass and cement house they were going to build, the one they wanted Chareau and Bijvoet to do for them. Right there, in the pines. We made lines in the sand, drawing the footprint out. They thought that summers would go on forever." He looked off towards the far mountain range that marked the Spanish border and they were silent in each other's company, a silence that had been a calm warm thing between them their entire lives. "We won't sell then" she whispered. "I don't know how we can avoid it. The tax on grandfather's house will destroy the estate." The young woman reached out and took his hand in hers. He turned towards her with wet in his eyes. "It doesn't matter. That dusty house and all his things never made us happy. We'll sell all that. Look at this place. It's perfect. It's our place. We will make something of this." "What could we make of it? How will we live?" "As for a living, good land can always provide. But we must make a home. We have to have a home now." Tenderly, the young man reached out and touched the swell contained under his sister's dress, the swell that held their baby. "Yes. We need our own home. One where we can be together forever." CHAPTER ONE JUNE, 2015 PARIS Agent de Police Judiciaire Jean-Paul Pederson pedaled his bicycle across the Pont Neuf, dodging the early morning traffic of smoking little white delivery vans, fashionable women on scooters, and brain-dead tourists stopping in middle of the road to snap a selfie from Paris's most famous bridge. The first day of June was here, it was going to be a perfect blue day with fluffy little clouds, and the city was as good as it could look after last night's rain. He turned into the triangular Place Dauphine, passing the law bookstore, hung right at the BNP Paribas and rounded the corner of the massive pile of cream stone that formed the block-long heart of the French justice system. He stepped off the bike with one smooth motion in front of the intimidating doors of 36 Quai des Orfévres, an address that struck fear into the heart of any French criminal, and walked the lightweight racer into the courtyard, securing it carefully to the rack. All kind of shady characters might wander through the headquarters of the Judiciary Police, and he wasn't about to let his ride be kipped. APJ Pederson collected his coffee from the police cafe on the ground floor and started up the six flights of stairs towards his office. He disdained the elevator and relied on his morning ride plus the climb up the stairs to get the blood pumping. It was a lovely marble staircase up to the second floor, then it turned to worn but glossy oak. At the fourth floor the staircase narrowed as he climbed into the warrant of tiny offices under the eaves that occupied the former haunts of servants and storage. These were the offices of the mathematical and scientific police, the men (almost all men) who wrestled with numbers and code more than suspects. The police that didn't need the interview rooms or holding cages downstairs. Up here were the geeks. Pederson had his geekish tendencies, but different from most of these cops who'd been recruited right out of their grandes ecoles, he'd spent six years as a uniformed officer in some of Paris's roughest neighborhoods. He knew how to handle himself and unlike most of his colleagues he had the muscle to show for it. He was a tall for a Frenchman, a well built man with short cropped light brown hair and fair blue eyes, a testimony to his father's Norwegian heritage. Slim and firm with a smooth round boyish face, in his late 20's he hadn't started to develop the paunch and sag that many men did, keeping himself trim, with a flat stomach and well developed biceps that filled the sleeves of his tight-fitting dark blue Izod knit shirt. Jean-Paul had entered this strange world under the attic when he'd been recruited last December into the special unit of the investigative magistrate, his boss Judge Villeneuve, who'd plucked him out of a shatteringly boring counter-terrorism hacking unit. After years spent acquiring his advanced computer engineering degree while working as a beat cop, he'd been kicked up into the judiciary police only to spend his days eavesdropping on incredibly incompetent wanna-be jihadis. It had been useful in polishing his Arabic, but otherwise a huge letdown from the adrenaline of the streets. So he would have been open to Villeneuve's recruitment into a unit that almost everyone turned down even if he hadn't had his own affinity for its specialized brief. He'd only been part of the team these few months but already he knew he was at home. He was good at it. Home was an long narrow cubby whose slanted ceiling sloped from a height of nearly four meters practically to the floor. There was one small window laid into this angled ceiling, a rooftop dormer-style square, and Jean-Paul had arranged his desk so that he could swivel around his chair and peek out of it. He had a view of the large apartment across the street where a Brazilian billionaire kept his mistresses, and to the left, just a slice of the swift grey waters of the Seine, rushing down the narrow chute that tamed and directed them on this side of the fish-shaped Île de la Cité. He could even catch a breeze off the river sometimes. It was his appetizer-sliced view of old, stone Paris. The office was less than two meters wide, and Pederson's desk, with a three monitor array, server stack and laptop, took up much of it. He slid into the French government's expensive ergonomic office chair and fired up the machines, entering his complex password protocol while he absentmindedly sipped his coffee. Stretching his long legs, tight from the six kilometer ride, he leaned back, head reaching almost all the way to the wall. He liked his little office. It was private, hidden away in the depths, forgotten and avoided by his fellow flics. Opening his email to see what had come overnight into his boxes, his eyes picked out a message from Tommy Nguyen, his counterpart at F.B.I. headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington. Tommy's overnight mails were typically full of new info on investigations, sometimes with evidence passed through an encrypted remote file server the Sûreté shared with the F.B.I. He always opened Tommy's messages first. "Jean-Paul my man, here's a new one for ya." Tommy's idiomatic english posed no problem for Agent Pederson, who had lived between the ages of 2 and 12 in Provo, Utah. "It popped up on the Pedo-Revolution Tor board last night and the trolls were freaking out. My prelim has identified 24p progressive CCD standard definition. I'm pretty sure it was shot on a Panasonic AGDVX100, so certainly after December 2002. It could have been recorded any time between then and now. Our voice analysis has the boy as either Dutch or German, can't quite pin it down since he's speaking in English, but if German probably from Bavaria or the Rhine. The girl only says a few words but we're pretty sure she's French, probably from south of the langue-d'oc/langue-d'oïl line. It's a very smooth production, good lighting, real pro feel, no easy giveaways. Definitely not your troll-bait webcam selfie shit. I figured the girl might hit in your databases. Since neither of them appear American, consider this one officially kicked over to you frogs. You'll find this one really intriguing, I've never seen anything exactly like it. The whole political spiel is really twisted. Salut!" Agent Pederson opened his encrypted FTP link to the FBI's server and grabbed the 400mb file. He loaded the file into the custom Final Cut-based software the French government had acquired for video examination and rendered the file into a new folder. Then he slipped on his headphones and, with one last swig to finish off the coffee, hit play, as he started making notes in an open document, following his usual protocol. Over the next hour, watching the video in stops and starts, he jotted down his basic observations. Video #15425-1 Length: 21.18 Video Quality: Excellent Audio Quality: Excellent Subject 1 Gender: M Approximate Age: 12 Hair: Blond Eyes: Blue Nationality: N/A Language: English, accented, likely Dutch Distinguishing characteristics: Boy is deeply tanned, no tan lines. Naturist? Subject 2: Gender: F Approximate Age: 10 Hair: Black Eyes: Brown Nationality N/A Language: French, unaccented Distinguishing characteristics: Girl is deeply tanned, faint bikini bottom tan line around the crotch, no tan line across chest. She has a mole on the left side of her neck. Setting: The video is indoors, in one room. Natural and artificial lighting both. Curtained windows, white semi-transparent. Large bed, modern (Ikea?), white linens. Walls appear to be painted wood, white. White bedding, appears high quality. Floor is unpolished wood planking (pine?). The room is otherwise undecorated, with only the bed and curtained window visible. It gives the impression of a vacation home, maybe a beach house. Audio noise in the background may be ocean wave noise, will need isolation and analysis. Production: The camera changes angle with professionally edited cuts. Stable shots indicate the use of a tripod. Camera zoom is activated during the video while both subjects are in the frame, indicating a third participant. Audio quality is good (boom mic?). Impressions: An extremely high quality video, of relatively recent origin. Due to the extensive political nature of the dialogue, this video has a feeling of propaganda as much as pornography. Both subjects show no hesitation or nervousness, indicating a long-term pattern of sexual activity. The subject's tans would indicate that it was created during the summer, likely in southern Europe. The mix of nationalities may indicate a resort town popular with northern Europeans. Great care and forethought went into this video, quite unusual for illegal pornography. Given the entirely indoor and barely furnished location, setting identification is unlikely. Facial recognition is the most likely avenue of pursuit. Jean-Paul slipped off his headphones and looked out his window at the pretty white clouds blowing in from the west. He could feel the erection straining the fabric of his tight selvedge jeans, and his stomach fluttered with excitement. For a man who made his living dealing with child pornography, this was one of the most extraordinary videos he had ever seen. It had started with a static shot of a bed in the corner of an otherwise bare room. Unlike so many other cp videos. this room wasn't some dingy flophouse or sad den of childhood poverty. The room was minimal but clean, and the bed looked comfortable with fresh plain white linens. It was more like the setting for a fashion shoot or a commercial adult porn video. After a few seconds of empty silence, the floorboards creaked and the two children came into view, already nude. They stood before the bed, holding hands, and the boy spoke in his softly accented and somewhat idiosyncratic english with the high clear treble of pre-adolescence as the girl looked admiringly at him. "Hello. I am 12 years old and she is ten years old. We are going to fuck now. We will fuck because we want to, and because it feels good. We will fuck because kids everywhere should be able to do whatever sex they want with their own bodies. No one is making us do this, and we are not abused. We are doing something we like to do and we want to do many times. It is a lie to say that kids like us cannot fuck. It is a lie told by the fascists in power, the police and the religious people and the other people who want to tell kids what to do. We are human kids and we want to do what we want. No person can say anything against us. These are our bodies and we are doing nothing bad. The bad people are those who want to hurt kids and fill their heads with stupid lies. Kids know better and we say no to these lies. We fuck because it is a revolutionary act to do so when the fascists tell us not to. We fuck to smash the anti-sex system and for kids rights!" The whole speech had been delivered in the slightly unnatural cadence of a boy reading a book report, but there was a fire and defiance in his face. It was agitprop, but it was agitprop that this kid believed. And what a kid he was, a handsome blond boy with golden bangs hanging across his blue eyes, which he flipped back occasionally with a turn of his head and a twist his long lovely neck. He was well built, with a flat stomach valleyed with abs, and a tight, slightly popped out chest crowned by fat red nipples that matched the color of his full lips. Between his tanned firm thighs jutted a substantial uncut dick, hanging at half staff from his hairless crotch. Puberty had obviously started his dick growing but hadn't sprouted a single hair. He was as comfortable in his nudity as he might be standing fully clothed on a street corner. He was tanned the color of maple syrup, without the slightest hint of a tan line. The girl, younger, hadn't any trace of puberty. She was slim as a boy herself, her flat chest unmarked by any sign of breasts other then her dark, slightly puffy nipples. Her black hair was straight and hung over her shoulder, and her hazel eyes were large and wide open. She was tanned several shades deeper than the boy, as one might expect from someone with her naturally darker coloring. Her slim hips framed the slit of her pussy, hairless and as tightly clasped as if it had been drawn into the clay of her flesh with a stick. Only the slightly deeper shade of her vaginal lips drew the attention to such a chaste little sex. She gazed at the boy with just the slightest hint of shyness, obviously admiring him, and when he finished his little speech he turned to her and kissed her, and her pink tongue darted eagerly out and into his mouth. As the two children kissed, the boy's penis started to rise to attention with pneumatic ease. He gently led her back towards the bed, and she sat down on the edge of it while he leaned over her, continuing to kiss her. Then the boy stood straight up and put his hands on his hips, pivoting forward. His erection was pointing almost straight up at the ceiling, and with a glance up into the boy's eyes, the girl leaned forward from her sitting position and grasped the cock, sliding back the foreskin with her thumb and index finger. She offered the boy's slit a quick darting lick, and then with practiced ease she slid the cock into her mouth, not stopping until her lips came against his pubis. She reached up with one hand and grasped his tight ball sack, and his testes became obvious in their pouch, two large marbles in a bit of tanned leather. Her other hand reached around and grasped the boy's magnificent round ass, pulling him forward as she blew him with enthusiasm. The camera cut to several different close up angles of the blow job, aping some of the common techniques of porn, including the tight shot on the lips, the pan up to the boy's face, and an angle from between the boy's legs looking up, the kid's hard slim thumper sliding into her mouth from below. After a moment she pulled off and leaned back on the bed, and the boy slid to his knees. It was her turn. The boy pried open the lips with practiced tanned fingers and went in with gusto, worrying the clit with the tip of his long red tongue before rolling it into a tube and trusting into her vaginal opening. Then he switched to lapping at the tight little cunt like a dog before focusing back on the clit again. The girl started to writhe again, and in French she whispered "mon dieu c'est bien ca". My god, that's good. The boy looked up at her and asked "does that feel good?" She shook her head yes in response. Then he asked "do you want me to fuck you?" and she shook her head again. The boy stood up as the girl crawled back onto the bed, spreading her knees out wide. He climbed onto the bed on his knees below her, his tanned ass rippling as he crawled. When he was over her on hands and knees, he leaned down and kissed her eagerly, then he sat onto his haunches and, as she reached down and pulled apart her pussy lips, he slid in a finger. She gasped, and he pulled his finger out and licked it. Then he spat on two fingers and slid them in, wetting her further. The boy lifted her ankles to his shoulders and leaned forward, lining his cock up with her slit, and with one expert motion he was in. "Oh shit!" she exclaimed in French. "Oh shit, yes!!" The boy bottomed out in her, and turning towards the camera he looked right into the lens. "See, kids can fuck too!" Then he went to work. He fucked her for several minutes in this missionary position, then he rolled over and she climbed up, squatting over him with her tiny slit posed like a sheath above his slim hard bone. She lowered herself onto him and started riding while he played with her nipples. With one hand she reached down and pushed her clit hard against his thrust, arching her back and moaning in a high, clear girlish voice. He grabbed her by the waist and started lifting her up and down, his small biceps pumping with her repeated squats. She was sliding two of her little fingers into herself with the thrusting cock, and her breathing was heavier, until with a sigh she shuddered in orgasm. The bucking of her hips only slowed for a moment though, and soon the camera had her on all fours as the boy took her doggy style, jamming his hips forward athletically, sweat running down his flawless body, down the runnel of his tight stomach, down the valley of his spine. He was grunting and she was moaning and breathlessly whispering "fuck me hard, fuck me hard" over and over again. Now his arms were around her waist, his fingers grinding her clit against his hardness that split her from behind. The veins on his graceful neck stood out, his ass glistened with sweat as the iliac crest flexed, his globes elongating and then becoming circular again with each thrust, his smooth, tanned abdomen quivering with sexual excitement. With a loud grunt and sigh he removed his hefty boy bone from the girl's slit and aimed it at her lower back while grasping it in a death grip. After a moment, one little drop of clear liquid skeeted out onto the girl's glistening brown back. Without a moment's hesitation, the boy leaned over and licked it up, and as the girl turned around to look at him, he swooped down and kissed her hard. She rolled onto her back and he continued to kiss her, swapping his little load into her mouth, and inserting all four fingers of his left hand in a cupped motion into her slit, jamming it hard while thrumming her clit with his thumb. In a moment she squealed again and arched her back with her second orgasm. The kids rolled up into sitting positions on the bed, leaning back onto their elbows side by side, and the boy looked into the camera once more. "We are kids and we love to fuck. All kids love to fuck if they choose to do it and it feels good. No one raped us. We do this because it is a great thing to do and because every time we fuck we smash the fascists who hate sex. All the fascists cannot stop us from doing what is natural for us. We will never stop fucking no matter the fascist laws." Speech over, the boy glanced off camera with a satisfied, knowing smile. The girls looked in the same direction inquisitively. "C'est comme ça tu le voulais papa?" That's how you wanted it daddy? * * * AMSTERDAM It was a beautiful spring morning, and Martin van de Meer accompanied his three younger boys on their bicycles to school. They left their comfortable townhouse just south of the Vondelpark, ten-year-old Hans and eight-year-old Benjie riding their own bikes while little Marcos, age five, rode in the front of his daddy's cargo bike. His fifteen-year-old son Robbie and his twelve-year-old daughter Saartje had already left for school. The younger boys knew the rules and stayed in an orderly line on the right part of the bike lane as commuters streamed by swiftly to the left. At the school entrance, he kissed each of the towheaded lads on the cheek and sent them off up the steps with a swat on their little butts. Then he climbed back on his indestructible Gazelle and headed towards his office in the converted warehouse next to the Amstel river. Locking his bike to the rack in front of the narrow old building, he climbed the glass staircase above the open bullpen of computer programmers and designers just starting their days and settled into the large brick-walled corner office afforded him as CTO of a tech firm. As he was opening his machines, his phone buzzed with a message, and he was surprised to see that it was Jamie, texting him from London. "Hope all is well" the text read, but any direct clearnet text from Jamie was an urgent protocol. Martin pulled the personal laptop from his sack and fired up the heavily encrypted machine. He'd set up a special wifi node for when he needed access on this machine at work, and in a few minutes he had logged in, launched Tor, and opened Jamie's chat box. "Jamie, what's happening?" he asked, worry starting to knot his stomach. Whatever it was it was too urgent for small talk. "Martin, a video from the documentation project has leaked." "What? How?" "We've no idea, but it was posted to Pedo-Revolution last night. It's already been downloaded over ten thousand times". Martin gasped, then looked up to make sure that no one had heard him. Through the thick glass that formed his office he could see his assistant, at work on her machine. She didn't look up. He took a deep breath, letting the nervous tingling that was shooting through his body retreat. This was bad. "How on earth could this have happened? Have you looked at our firewalls?" "No evidence of a breach. No evidence that anyone has even tried. I could be wrong, but it is much more likely to have been done on purpose. We may have a traitor." "Impossible! Who would be foolish enough to put one of our vids on a public darknet site? That's asking for LEA attention." "It's already happened. An FBI IP pulled the video down minutes after it was loaded. Worse, our man in the Quai des Orfévres tells us the file has been downloaded from the FBI encrypted server onto their system, meaning they've identified the nationalities and forwarded it to French police already. It's in the hands of Judge Villeneuve's team." "Who was identified, which video was it?" There was a long pause over the wire from across the channel. "It's one of the videos of Robbie and Marie Palliere from three summers ago." "Oh no." * * * AJP Pederson sat at his normal lunch place across from the Tour Saint Jacques, picking at the greens of his salad. He took another sip of beer. The video had perturbed him. Over the months since joining Villeneuve's child exploitation unit, he'd seen his fair share of child pornography. It was part of his job, and while some of it he had found immensely arousing, much of it had been far too sad to measure. But this, this was different. This video struck him as a political statement, an extremely effective kind of propaganda for the sexual liberation of children. The very idea made him anxious. He'd taken the job with a mix of emotions; as a man who was himself attracted to kids, especially young boys, he had a prurient interest, but he also felt that his proclivities would make him an even more effective agent in putting an end to the damage and exploitation of vulnerable children. He had mostly been correct, as his work had made him familiar with the brutal circumstances in which many children were used for the gratification of others. Much of the pornography that cross his desk was about economic exploitation, just as it was with much of the adult sex trade. Youngsters, forced by need, doing what they were told so that they could eat. Though to be honest, many, if not most of the files that crossed his desk these days weren't exploitative this way. In the age of digital ubiquity, most "child pornography" was made by the children themselves. Webcams had brought the net into the bedrooms of horny kids everywhere, and they freely shared their sexual experimentation with others online. Sexting was a rite of passage, and he had the proof on his servers. Sometimes, these videos were the result of tricks played by savvy exploiters; many a horny boy had been hoodwinked into thinking that the sexy older girl who wanted to chat was real, when in fact she was just a digital creation. It was sexual catfishing, and it had flooded the web with home-produced cp. But this video wasn't that, it was adults making a sex propaganda film with kids for a purpose. What could that purpose be? In circulating the film, they risked capture. They had minimized the risks, but law enforcement had powerful tools. Jean-Paul could run the two kids through his facial recognition software, a tool that would crawl the internet for a match. Not just police files, but identity records, school photos, social media sites and public photo sharing outlets. The only thing that might stand in its way was the age of the video. If the kids had grown significantly it might make a hit harder to accomplish. But it was an immensely helpful tool. What bothered Agent Pederson was not the probability of his success. He was good at his job, and he would pursue every avenue. If his quarry had made a mistake, he would find and exploit it. No, what bothered him was the degree to which the propaganda had worked. He had been swayed by the earnestness of the kids, by their obvious pleasure, by the apparent truth to what they were saying. Not the anti-fascist agitprop that the boy was mouthing, but what both were saying with their bodies. They were pleasuring each other, and it was difficult to see how it was wrong. The only shadow of exploitation had come at the end, with the girl's tentative question to the man she had referred to as papa. If this scene was staged by adults, could it truly be authentic? He didn't know. But he knew he had to find out, he had to put the moral assertion of this video to the test. If these kids claimed that that their fucking was not hurting them, but that it was even their right, then he would have to see this for himself. Speak to them. Unravel the truth. This meant that he would have to carry out his investigation privately. In his official capacity he would log the video and go through the motions of a police inquiry, but in reality he would investigate this video on his own. With a determined motion he finished off his beer and stood, looking up at the gargoyle-ringed ancient tower rising from its pretty square. It was five hundred years old, built by the wealthy butchers of Paris as the crowning glory of a once-great church. The rest of the church had been pulled down in an act of iconoclasm during the Revolution. An institution once thought eternal had been demolished by change. In 1500 a man could have taken a young girl as a bride, but a woman could be burned at the stake for submitting to rape. How we had changed. How we might change again. What would this city look like in another 500 years? What would the ethics and mores of the people be then? Jean-Paul Pederson couldn't shake the feeling that in a short pornographic video he had glimpsed the future. He hoped he just wasn't thinking with his cock, of that boy's tanned round ass as he had mounted the squirming, willing girl. He shook his head to clear it and turned back towards the Palace of Justice. CHAPTER 2 JUNE 2015 LANGUEDOC Phillippe Loîc Charles Christy-Palliere turned his ancient Land Rover down the alley lined with parasol pines that lead to the campground and summer resort his family had owned for three generations. Le Centre Solaire le Rocher was down a half kilometer of narrow asphalt road that crossed the low-lying wetlands, lined all the way with the shade-casting top-heavy pines. Curving around the edge of the salt-water etang, as he approached the reception he swung off before the gate and around to the service entrance, punching in the security code at the bar. The muscular, compactly hairy forty year old with the thick crop of black hair, long gallic nose and bristly short beard drove around behind the centre's commercial area, with its cafe, restaurant, small supermarket and gift shop. These businesses had opened for the high season at the beginning of the month. Turning right at the tennis courts, he passed the sprawling pool area. a large lagoon-like main pool with a stone island in the center that had a several water slides leading into it, while a smaller rectangular pool for lap swimming was offset by a wading area for small children and a large jacuzzi. This early in the season the pool area wasn't too crowded, though the day had warmed admirably and the sun was shining from the cloudless Roussillon sky. Above the commercial area and pool, past the large children's playground, football pitch and boules ground, rose the rock. The camp was named after the rounded sandstone cap that rose from the flat Languedoc coast like a stone tossed by a giant. It was twenty meters high, sheer on the side facing the swimming pools, rounded and easily climbed from the side facing the beach. Phillippe drove on the gravel road around the rock's base, past the alleys shaded by cork oaks and olive trees that lead to the long rows of campgrounds, caravan sites and modest but attractive wooden beach cabins. Le Centre Solaire le Rocher. The Sun Centre at the Rock. His house, the biggest in the centre, was a sprawling set of connected adobe and stone buildings that had been started by his parents and added onto as the family grew. It sat at the seaward base of the rock, the path to climb the escarpment directly behind the back door. He backed the Landie into its place in the drive and hopped out, walking into the kitchen that smelled of that evening's dinner of seafood bisque bubbling gently on the old gas stove. His wife Mirelle was off managing the reception. The four Palliere children only attended regular schools during the winter when the centre was closed and the family stayed at their apartment in Perpignan, but from the first of April until the first of November they stayed here at the camp, getting homeschooled by a staff tutor in the mornings and having their afternoons free to roam. Phillippe walked down the long hall towards the bedrooms, his work boots ringing on the Spanish tiles. He could hear the sound of grunts and slapping flesh coming from down the hall, so he continued past his bedroom until he came to the door of his oldest son, 14 year old Marc. He was a handsome kid, with his father's close-shorn black hair in a fashionable crop, hazel brown eyes below thick dark eyebrows, a strong angular jaw inherited from his father, and a muscular long-legged developing body that reflected his prowess on the rugby and football pitch. The boy was in his usual state, without a stitch of clothes, deeply tanned even this early in the season, and his large, long, uncircumcised cock rose from his hairless pubic triangle above a brace of large smooth balls. The cock in question was at the moment drawing in and out of his ten year old sister Aurelie's tiny pussy. The girl lay on her back, thin legs spread wide, hands above her head pushing herself down from the headboard, thrusting her hips with practice. She'd only been taking full-sized cocks like her brother's for about a year, but she knew what to do, and she had a look of concentration on her face as she watched the big sausage slide in and out of her tiny slit. Her pink tongue darted out from time to time to lick her upper lip in concentration. Phillippe stood in the doorway for a moment and watched his rutting children silently, absentmindedly scratching his beard. He could tell Marc was near his nut by the furious instinctive speed of his thrusts. As his father watched, the boy hefted a sigh, arched his long well-defined back, clenched his brown ass cheeks, and with a few short, hard breaths came into his sister, a moan whistling from between his clenched teeth. "Now that you're done, come help me unload the truck." Marc rolled over onto his back, his handsome prick popping out of his sister with a smack. "OK dad, just let my bone go down." "You promised me you'd eat me after you came Marc!" Little Aurelie exclaimed petulantly. "Work first, play later" her dad said gruffly, putting the matter to rest. "You were supposed to put the mulch into the flowerbed next to reception Marc." "I was going to dad, this afternoon." "Dinner is in an hour. When did you plan to get it done?" "OK, I'll go now." "It's not fair!" pouted the little girl. "Don't worry, cherie" the impatient father pronounced. "When the truck is unloaded I'll come eat your pussy for you." "Good. You do it better than Marc anyway!" The teenager shot his little sister his long middle finger and she replied with her tongue stuck out and wagging. Phillippe turned and walked back to the front of the house, his boy following him out the kitchen door into the drive. Marc hadn't put on a stitch of clothes, only his worn leather sandals. Nor was he expected to. The Center Solaire was one of France's oldest naturist resorts, and clothes were optional everywhere except the pool and the beach, and there nudity was very much mandatory. As long as the boy's fuck stick wasn't reared up in front of him like an arrow, no one would even look twice, though truth be told he smelt a bit gamey from the fucking. Even a girl as young and fresh as Aurelie made a distinct scent when you stuck it into her. But what teenage boy didn't smell a bit funky anyway? The two of them quickly unloaded the bags of wood chips Phillippe had brought back from town into the garage, and then the boy took off to finish his chore with the flowerbeds. All the children were expected to work around the Centre every day. It was their family business and they all had to contribute. As Phillippe walked back into his house, his thoughts turning to the licking of his young daughter's pussy still slick with his son's teenage juice, his phone vibrated with a text. It was from Jamie in London: Dinner reservation confirmed for tonight at eight. Phillippe stopped in his tracks. The text meant one thing — an emergency meeting of the Small Council, unscheduled and away from their normal Wednesday night chats. Something serious must have gone wrong. A chill ran down Phillippe's spine. What could it be? A security breach? "Daddy! I'm horny!" cried the girl from the back of the house. Well the conference wouldn't happen for another three hours, so he better take care of his daughter first. * * * PARIS Agent Jean-Paul Pederson accessed the encrypted VPN server for the Police Judiciaire from his home laptop, using a dummy account he'd set up illegally. He loaded the screen grabs of the two kids from the video he'd received that morning into the PJ's facial recognition software and ran the program. It might take hours to find any matches, so he set it to run and logged into Tor, navigating to Pedo-Revolution and signing in under his avatar. Sometimes he thought half the people on the board must be law enforcement blokes like him. The video posting had made a huge splash, and in the chat it was a subject of frequent conversation. Where had it come from? Who were these shameless, brazen kids? What did all the political rhetoric mean? There were on the board a number of users who had for some time espoused a political element to sex with kids, and who were very excited by this proof of their ideas, by actual kids joining their imagined kid sex revolution. This was so much more powerful than the usual webcam jackoff videos, third world exploitation porn and ancient pre-prohibition film stock that made up their normal trade. There was a German user named FKKPapa who hinted that he knew who the boy was. Jean-Paul sent him a private message but he only responded by saying that he had "seen him around" and was otherwise evasive. FKK was German shorthand for nudist, and given the boy's lack of tan lines Jean-Paul went into the archive's photo database and pulled up files of images taken from nudist resorts and beaches over the last ten years. There was a brisk trade on the pedo-web of pictures of children photographed surreptitiously at these resorts, often with a telescopic lens. He opened a large set of those pictures, prioritized them in his facial recognition search and sat back, sipping his tea and monitoring his channels. Seven minutes later there it was, a match. It was a still photo of the blond boy, clear as day, in a series of HD shots. He was coming out of a swimming pool area, past a waterslide, toweling himself and slipping on his sandals. He was talking to several other boys, all standing around in a half circle, as unconscious of their nudity as animals. Then he was mounting a bike, his towel draped over the seat, and setting off down a shady narrow campground lane. Jean-Paul switched back to the poolside pictures. There, off at the edge of the frame, captured in mid-dive, was the dark-haired caramel-skinned girl from the film. Agent Pederson opened the notes on the file. The photos were believed to have been created three summers ago. The landmarks had been identified at the time in an attempt to narrow down their producer, but the investigation hadn't progressed beyond that. After all, the pictures weren't actually porn, just images of naked kids being naked kids, doing kid stuff. This kind of soft cp was a low priority for his unit. Many jurisdictions wouldn't even indict on it. So no one had followed through beyond identifying when the pictures had been circulated and where they had been shot. They had been taken at a naturist campground along the Med not far from the Spanish border. The resort was called the Centre Solaire le Rocher. The Rock. * * * Phillippe Palliere opened the encrypted video conferencing software and his webcam came to life. The other members of the Small Council popped up one by one. Martin Van de Meer came in from his bookshelf-lined home office in Amsterdam. Jamie Cromwell beamed in from the bedroom of his ultra-modern London flat. Marike Heydrich appeared from the garden room of her house in Berlin, and in the fading light through the windows children could be seen playing football on the commune's small grass yard. From a laptop set on an outdoor table, Frank Goldberg came in, sipping his coffee in the bright morning light as LA sprawled behind him in the haze. Phillippe was surprised and a bit anxious to see that the Small Council was being joined by one other face this evening. René Renaud, the husband of Phillippe's younger sister Claire, their man in the IT department of the French Judicial Police. There was silence on the line as everyone felt the seriousness of an emergency meeting and they didn't engage in their normal round of chit-chat. Jamie, their current Director of Security, opened the conversation with his clipped Oxbridge accent. "I've asked René to join us, and you will all understand why in a second. We have a security breach, and it's serious. It may be the most serious we've had. One of the videos from our documentation project has leaked and is on the open darknet. It had not been modified yet to disguise the identities of the two young ones in it, and it is already in the hands of law enforcement." Jamie paused to allow the look of shock to fade from the faces of Phillippe, Marike and Frank, while Martin and René looked on dourly. "The video was posted to the Pedo-Revolution board last night, and downloaded to an FBI IP not long after. Then this morning it was downloaded off the FBI's encrypted server by an agent in Judge Villeneuve's team in Paris. He was evidently forwarded the video by a task force member from the Bureau. This video is in the hands of law enforcement in the US and Europe, and we have to resolve a very dangerous situation. René, could you please tell us what you know?" The handsome, stubbled, curly-haired 30-year-old Corsican cleared his throat and looked up at the camera in the spare bedroom of the Paris apartment he shared with his wife and two young children. "The video was downloaded shortly after nine this morning" he started in his heavy French accent. "It was downloaded by a new member of Judge Villeneuve's team." "Not our one?" Marike asked, referring to the agent within the Judicial Police over which they had potential blackmail leverage. "Unfortunately, no. This is the new agent, Jean-Paul Pederson. I started a file on him that's already on the S drive for you to look at. We don't know much about him. He is French with an American father, spent part of his childhood in the States and then in Paris. He came up through the DCSP, the uniformed police. He achieved his schooling in computer engineering while also serving in uniform. He was then for two years at the anti-terrorism sub-directorate before the Judge recruited him in December. He is unmarried, and I was able to establish that he is primarily homosexual from monitoring his home internet usage through the device I placed at his apartment." René had managed to hack the home systems of all the members of Villeneuve's team, including the judge himself. "Interestingly, he spends most of his time observing pornography of young men, barely legal kind of stuff." "Please bring everyone up to speed on his behavior this evening, René." "Yes. Well, interestingly, he failed to do anything except open an investigation dossier for the video after he had received it and viewed it on his work machine. He made some standard notes, but then he filed the video away. Two hours ago he connected through VPN over a backdoor clandestine account he had set up himself in the agency's system, and of which I was already aware, an interesting red flag. There he accessed the video and started running facial recognition software. Then he accessed Pedo-Revolution and chatted with several users, including a man using the avatar "FKKPapa", who claimed to have recognized the boy in the video, though he wouldn't say from where." "Which children were involved?" Frank interrupted, slightly delayed by the satellite relay. "We'll get to that" Jamie responded, nodding for René to continue. "Then he went in and pulled a large file of naturist images and ran the images against the video. Unfortunately, the images contained the widely distributed set of photos that we dealt with three years ago. And unfortunately, he found a match." Jamie cleared his throat. "His match was to Martin's son, Robbie. The other actor in the video was your Marie, Phillippe. I'm sorry." Phillippe felt it like a kick in the stomach. He had been furious when the images taken at the Rock had surfaced years before, images including his kids. They weren't porn, but it had still felt like a terrible violation, not only of his family but of his home. The man who had taken the images had been discovered and dealt with, but not before he had placed several series of images into circulation. "Scheiße" Marike muttered from Berlin. "How did this happen?" "We'll get to that" Jamie responded once more, "but first, we need to deal with how we are going to respond to Agent Pederson. His behavior is highly unusual. Using a backdoor to access the agency's servers is an offense for which he can be fired. He seems to be conducting an off-the-books investigation. One must wonder why. I think it has to do with his predilection for twink porn. In other words, unless he opens an official investigation of this video, I think that Agent Pederson may be turned." Silence fell across the group as the all contemplated this suggestion. It was risky, very risky. But to have one of their own inside the Quai des Orfévres, not only in the IT department but in Villeneuve's very task force, that would be an incredible coup. "How would we do so?" asked Frank. Martin piped up. "He's gay. He's in Paris. We'll use Johnny Durant and his boys." * * * Two floors above his father, Robbie van de Meer lay on his bed nude, still damp from field hockey practice, while his ten year old brother Hans gave him a blow job. The boy's tow-colored hair hung in his eyes as he looked up at his big brother, bobbing back down the length of the fat teenager's cock to his tightly clipped small patch of dishwater blond pubes. Hans loved to blow Robbie when he was still sweaty from practice. The reek of body odor and testosterone turned the younger boy on, and as he sucked Robbie's cock he tugged furiously on his own skinny little stiffy. Meanwhile, Robbie had his iPad open on his stomach and was practically ignoring the youngster hard at work in his lap, chatting with his American friend Mike, whom he'd met on a board for gay teenagers. Mike was super hot, and as the boy blew Robbie, Mike danced around in his underwear in his own bedroom in Austin, occasionally slipping the tight undies down to flash Robbie a bit of pale ass or an inch or two of hard shaft from the sizable seventeen-year-old cock that bulged out the front of his cotton briefs. Mike was cut, a well-muscled, smooth-chested high school running back with a tight eight-pack of abs, and as he danced for the younger Dutch boy his body twisted and flexed sinuously. He had a hard, high round ass and meaty thighs, as well as a thick bush of brown pubes that formed a sweaty happy trail up his taut belly. Mike had been sexting with him for a month and Robbie was fully smitten by the big, sexy American boy with the blue eyes and sharp crewcut. They'd jacked off together a dozen times over Skype. As he watched, mesmerized, Mike came up towards his camera and leaned in, whispering gruffly "show me your cock, Robbie." Robbie smiled in response, his full red lips turning into a bit of a smirk at the corners. "I have a surprise for you." "What dude, I'm so horny!" "It's what you've been begging to see." "No! Right now?" With a laugh, Robbie switched the camera to front view, and in the corner of the connection he saw what Mike was now seeing — a gorgeous blond ten-year-old boy slurping down a hard teenage cock like a pitbull going after a bone. "Oh fuck!" Mike exclaimed. "That's so hot!" In Austin the American boy had pulled his eight inch circumcised thumper from his briefs and was jacking it furiously to the images of the young boy with a mouth full of smooth fat dick. Hans looked up under his bangs and lifted his lips from Robbie's fat mushroom tip, giving the universal "what's up" nod of boys everywhere. Then he went nonchalantly back to his oral duties. The American boy was now jacking with the speed of a motorcycle's piston. With a series of husky grunts, the rippling young Texas football star thrust his hips forward and came, shooting a copious load of thick white cream out across the air, where it landed on the pile of dirty practice gear piled on the carpet next to his desk. This was enough to send Robbie off, and the fifteen-year -old whispered "ik zaad" to Hans, who pulled his big brother's cock from deep within his throat to catch the older boy's load on his tongue. Robbie always shot a hefty load after practice, and a good dollop shot up Hans's cheek and into his tousled white-blond hair. The boy smiled a big happy smile as his ruby tongue lapped up the seed that was now running down his brother's shaft. Robbie flipped the camera back around so that his face was in the frame again. "Dude, I came so hard" croaked the Texas boy. "Me too" replied the Dutch lad in his soft accent. "Your little bro his so hot man. I'd love him to blow me like that." As he said so, young Hans climbed up and snuggled in next to his brother, looking down at the iPad. He turned his head and gave his brother a sexy, spermy kiss, his coated tongue wrestling with his beloved older sibling. The broke apart and gave each other a significant look. "Say hi to Mike, Hansje" Robbie whispered. The younger boy turned toward the camera and, with a shyness not in evidence moments before when he'd been focused on deep throating his brothers genitals, he whispered "hoi" and waved a little wave. * * * AUSTIN, TX Mike Davenport sat at the kitchen table with his two younger brothers, 14-year-old Jessie and ten-year-old Tyler, while their dad put the plates of salad and bbq that he'd picked up on his way home in front of his three sons. Coach Davenport knuckled Tyler's short brown hair as he laid his plate down, and gave Jessie's shoulder a squeeze. The big man put Mike's food in front of him and then leaned over, giving his oldest a kiss that turned into an impromptu makeout session as his tongue slid into the teen's mouth. His little brothers didn't pay any attention, since this was not an unusual occurrence in their house. Coach was more than just a dad to his boys. He was also their daddy. "Did you chat with your Dutch buddy" coach asked, sliding into his seat at the head of the table. "Oh yeah" Mike enthused between stuffing his mouth with pieces of brisket. "He finally did it. He let me see his brother giving him head." "Which one?" "The ten-year-old. Hans." "Well, I'm sure he sucks cock better than your ten-year-old brother" the coach replied, winking at the youngest boy, who responded to the good-natured teasing by sticking out his sauce-covered tongue as his daddy ruffled his hair. "He's cute, a total blondie. He's really good at it." "Has he told you anything more about his family?" "No, just that he does it with all his brothers and sister. He still hasn't mentioned his mom and dad." "Well, the boy is being cagey. How could there be that much fucking under that roof if the parents didn't know? I'd certainly know if you boys were fucking behind my back." "We do it all the time without you dad" Jessie smirked. "You forget, I get to see it all on the cameras" his father responded with a knowing leer. "Well, Robbie won't say, and I'm not gonna just ask him. He needs to bring it up hisself." "Smart boy. But try to find out soon. Summer vacation is almost here and if we're gonna make a trip to Amsterdam, I need to make the arrangements." Mike stopped chewing his food and swallowed the lump in his throat. "You mean go over there? And, like, have sex with them?" "Why not, if they're like us?" "But we're not allowed to have sex outside the family" little Tyler piped up, repeating the Davenport's cardinal rule. "I know son. But if their family is like our family, well, that's different. It's not something that's ever happened before, but I would consider it." Mike looked at his father with a Christmas morning expression on his face. "Oh man, that would be so awesome." "I'd get to do it with a girl!" Jessie exclaimed as the thought came to him of Robbie's until now entirely hypothetical sister. "You're such a breeder" Mike teased. "You're such a faggot" Jessie replied. "Hey, you two know how I feel about those terms" the coach barked out. "Sorry sir." "Sorry sir." Coach Davenport turned to his oldest son. "Did you record your session with Robbie and his brother?" "Of course." "Good. Maybe something new to post to Pedo-Revolution. And see if you can get him to share any more of those videos he talked about."